Dark Thoughts
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: This short little idea has been rattling around my head in response to this month's Fête des Mousquetaires. A brief scene tied to S1, Ep 4 "Homecoming". Enjoy!


He wouldn't believe it.

They wouldn't betray him.

But if they hadn't, why weren't they here?

Porthos' head ached, but he wasn't sure if it was from a blow he had taken to his head that was causing these random flashes of memory of that night, or if it was the echoing of doubts that Charon's words had planted in his head.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the image that had been planted there, the feeling of helplessness as the guards led him out of the court to his hanging. He saw them standing in the court, Athos, D'Artagnan and Aramis, but when the need was dire, where were they?

It was Charon and his men who had rescued him. They plucked him from the vengeful grasp of one court to bring him to a different, more familiar Court.

A Court where the friends he had abandoned for another life - a life as a musketeer - were the ones who had saved him, while his other brothers watched as he was dragged away like an animal.

"Were they truly his brothers?" Porthos asked himself.

Where were the pillars he had come to rely on? It was as if they had been stripped away from beneath his feet as he plummeted. Had they betrayed him? The feeling of that support giving way made Porthos feel as though he really had been hanged.

He shook his head again, desperate to think clearly.

His chest ached, throbbing in time with the pounding in his head. How is it that he could be back here…here, among his childhood home and horrors. They had abandoned him to this.

"No, they had turned him over to the hangman," he corrected.

His fists clenched as anger boiled his blood. Was he that naïve to have imagined that those men had ever cared for him?

He should have known better. He had taught himself long ago that if you wanted to survive you could only count on yourself. No one would be there to help you out. You had to watch your own back.

That's how he had gotten here, wasn't it? He had become too reliant on those men. He had trusted them, and they had betrayed him to this fate.

D'Artaganan he hardly knew, he thought, as the whelp's face flashed before his eyes. The lad had no real ties of loyalty to Porthos, not really, other than a growing friendship and the unspoken brotherhood that stood among the musketeers – a brotherhood that he felt deteriorating, as he rubbed at his temples.

D'Artagnan was still young, had yet to see his first battle, had yet to earn his commission, even. Other than a kind smile and a joke at meal times ... was that enough for the boy to consider risking his own potential career to save Porthos? Porthos knew how hard it was for any man to become a Musketeer. Would Porthos be worth risking that to the Gascon?

The pain in his head surged. "No," he thought.

Porthos closed his eyes and the ice blue eyes of Athos danced before him. True, they had known each other for years, served side by side in the direst of circumstances, and Athos had proven to be one of the best men that Porthos had known. Porthos, however, knew the man's discipline; how he valued duty and honour. Would he be able to ignore his every inclination to follow orders for Porthos' sake without any indisputable proof of his innocence?

No. Though he was sure Athos shared the same feelings of brotherhood, he knew he could not, would not be able to go against the call of his duty. He may want to, but Athos would always do as commanded. He would not be coming for Porthos unless it was to arrest him.

Porthos tried to recollect the events of the night they celebrated his birthday. There was drinking and laughing; there was the rare smile on Athos' lips, the delight in D'Artagnan's eyes and the bravado of Aramis as Porthos took aim at the melon balanced upon his head. There was the walk through Cheapside, and more wine. There was the old woman at the tavern, and the two men arguing in the street. Then there was darkness and pain before the red guards took him into custody that morning.

His head surged with a sudden flair of pain and he dropped it into his hands. This was more than a hangover. Something or someone had hit him, he was sure of it. The pain was so bad he almost longed for one of Aramis' pain draughts.

The thought poured over him like a bucket of warm water.

Aramis.

At once the face of the marksman appeared in his mind's eye, his eyes burning with trust and confidence as Porthos aimed a pistol at him. He saw the care and pain that laced those eyes whenever he assessed one of Porthos' wounds. He saw the mischief that resided there when the pair caroused the taverns or teased the whelp or worked to perplex Athos into laughing. He saw the first welcoming eyes that greeted him when he joined the regimen - unhesitant, warm, and accepting. He saw the love that burned within those depthless brown pools. If there was one man he could count on to burn the court to the ground to save him if need be, it was the reckless, passionate Spaniard.

Porthos felt the warmth of Aramis begin to spread to the rest of his body. It was as if the man was there, whispering to him to have faith.

At that thought, Athos' cold blue eyes turned to ones of fierce determination and the loyalty that he knew dwelled deep within the man. He saw the trust and daring that resided in D'Artagnan – the same young man who leapt into battle to find the truth behind his father's murder. And once again he saw Aramis, his eyes burning fiercely. "Hold on brother, we are coming for you," he heard him say.


End file.
